Every Dance Like a Graph of the Heart
by icepixel
Summary: A Consulate function. Dancing. Wistfulness. Fraser&Thatcher UST


If the French ambassador said another word about wine, she was going to have to kill him. Meg smiled politely at the old man, keeping all evidence of her homicidal thoughts from showing in her expression as he took a sip of the fourth and final vintage being served at the reception.

The ambassador paused, swallowed, and made a slight grimace. "It is not bad, emma cherie/em, but really, nothing to compare to--"

"Excuse me," Meg interrupted smoothly, "but I should go make sure the cook hasn't flambéed the dessert. I think I smell something burning." Without waiting for the ambassador to respond, she hitched up the red silk and tulle of her skirt and made her escape.

The crowd was large, but she ploughed through it with all the confidence of fifteen years as a Mountie, and quickly made it out to the large balcony overlooking the lake. The balcony was one of the features that made this small hotel north of the city her favorite spot for consulate events that were too large for the consulate itself to hold. It was a little chilly still in late April to have the reception spill out onto the flagstones and wash up against the railing, but as a solitary retreat, there was nothing better.

Except that, as she noticed after a moment, it wasn't solitary. There was a figure at the far end of the balcony whom she could just make out in the light from the French doors as Constable Fraser.

He, of course, had seen her the moment she rushed out the door, and was already crossing the distance between them. "Inspector," he said. "Are you all right?" He peered at her with concern.

Meg realized she was breathing heavily, and she forced herself to relax her fists. "I just needed some air," she replied. "If I heard Gaston make one more reference to how much better the wine from his hometown was than what he was drinking here, I would have done something I regretted."

The corner of Fraser's mouth twitched, and Meg was oddly pleased to have made him smile. "What are you doing out here all alone?" she asked, just to keep their conversation going.

Fraser glanced at the crowded ballroom visible through the doors. "I also needed some air."

"It's a lovely night for it," she said, turning slightly to take in the stars, twinkling in a clear sky, and the dark expanse of the lake in front of them.

"It is. Are you sure you're warm enough?" Fraser asked, referring to the thin straps that held up her dress, leaving her arms bare.

"I'm fine," she said. The breeze off the water actually felt nice after the crowded warmth of the ballroom.

Through the door Meg had left open, they could hear strains of music. The string quartet had come back from their break and were now playing a slow waltz. Schubert, if her memory served. She swayed slightly to the beat, her hands resting against the stone balustrade.

She heard Fraser take a breath, and then say with just the slightest hesitation, "Would you care to dance?"

She snapped her head around to look at him, her eyes wide. His face was open and hopeful, and he was holding out his hand.

Had it been anyone else, she would have said no; she'd come out here to get away from the dancing and the people inside, after all. But she'd already demonstrated that she had an embarrassing weakness where this man was concerned, and before she'd had the chance to give it much thought, she found herself taking his hand.

He led her out to the middle of the balcony and placed himself in front of her, his right hand coming to rest gently but solidly against her shoulder blade, where the skin was bared by the low back of the gown. He pulled her forward so they connected from stomach to thigh. She shivered, and it wasn't from the cold.

She met his gaze, and saw him mouth the three-beat count of the music. On the next downbeat, he stepped forward, and began to lead her in the graceful, lilting steps the waltz.

He was a wonderful dancer. Of course he was; it was such an old-fashioned skill, Fraser was bound to be good at it. She didn't have to think at all about where to place her feet; he guided her so expertly across the flagstones that they couldn't get tangled up. It was a good thing, too, because she couldn't possibly think coherently like this.

The moment was like something out of a fairy tale: the cool night air, his warm hand on her back, the lights of downtown Chicago glittering far in the distance. Fraser was looking at her, his eyes dark in the half-light provided by the reception indoors. She wondered what he was thinking.

All too soon, the last note of the waltz faded away, and a moment later they parted. It was with reluctance that she let her hand slip out of his.

They didn't speak for a long moment. She wished--suddenly, madly--that he would kiss her here in the shadowed privacy of their own personal dance floor.

But of course it wasn't truly private, not with any pair of hundreds of eyes inside liable to glance out at them at any moment. More importantly, she reminded herself, it was foolhardy, and completely inappropriate for people their respective positions.

Fraser was working up the nerve to say something, she could tell, and she found herself holding her breath as she waited for him to speak.

Finally he did. "Have you promised the last dance to anyone?"

She blinked. His question was simultaneously reserved and rather forward, given that the last dance of the evening retained something of its significance even at a very modern reception for a blowhard of a Gallic ambassador. It was utterly typical of Fraser. "No, I haven't."

"Would you like--that is, I would be honored if--"

He'd never actually be able to get the question out, she realized with some amusement. "Yes," she said, cutting him off mid-word.

"Oh," he said, seeming a little surprised that it had been that easy. He smiled, and it infected her own mouth, the corners turning up a little shyly. "I look forward to it," he said.

"So do I." Before she could do something foolish, she turned to look back at the row of French doors leading to the party. She saw Gaston standing at one of them, pointing at the glass of wine in his hand and making a sour face. She had to go back inside and listen to him prattle on about wine again, didn't she?

She sighed. "I should go back inside."

Fraser glanced at his watch, following her as she walked toward the building. "And I must relieve Constable Turnbull."

She would have offered to let him off of guard duty if she didn't think he would actually enjoy it more than mingling at the reception.

The reached the door, and crossed the threshold back into the noise and light of the party. Before they separated, he said, "Until later?"

"Until later," she agreed, a blush she would later put down to the overheated room pinkening her cheeks faintly. He nodded and began snaking his way through the diplomats toward the front of the building.

Hearing an accented voice behind her, Meg turned to face the ambassador. "Ah, Gaston. How nice to run into you again..."

* * *

**N.B**. The title is from a quotation by Martha Graham: "Every dance is a kind of fever chart, a graph of the heart."


End file.
